Upstairs, Downstairs
by Ruuger
Summary: Two englishmen and a funeral. Spike/Wes. Takes place after "The Gift"/"There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb".


Even though it fought against everything he believed in, Wes was forced to admit that there were moments when not even a cup of hot Earl Grey could make things better.

He was sitting on the back porch of the Summers' house, holding a mug full of tea to warm his hands in the unusually chilly May evening. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear Giles and Angel arguing in sotto voices in the kitchen behind him. Wes set down the mug and rubbed his temple to soothe the headache building behind his eyes. Looking back, the days in Pylea were starting to feel like a trip to Disneyland compared to the few hours he had so far spent at Revello Drive.

To be honest, he had not even wanted to come to the funeral in the first place. However, his attempts to volunteer to stay behind to look after Fred had been thwarted by Cordelia, who had pulled him aside and told him in no uncertain terms that they needed someone to drive the other car because Willow certainly wasn't in the shape to drive back and Cordelia couldn't drive because of the visions and could Wes just for five minutes stop being an ass.

It wasn't that that he didn't grieve for Buffy. He had known her - albeit briefly - and had, over the years, grudgingly come to understand and respect her, even if he still shuddered at the memory of once catching her using a priceless 4th Century manuscript as a coaster. Disrespect for authority aside, she had been one of the greatest slayers of all time, and Wes found himself wishing that he had known her better.

But somehow his grief was not as important as that of Giles, Angel, or Buffy's friends. They didn't say it aloud, of course, but he could see it in their eyes. They would look at him as if he wasn't even worthy of saying her name, as if his mere presence cheapened her memory.

Because he was Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Buffy's _other _watcher; the one who buggered everything up. In the end it had taken just one look from Giles and the liberator of Pylea had been turned back into a stuttering failure of an ex-watcher.

"The hell with it," he muttered, emptying the mugfull of lukewarm tea on the grass.

"Spike?"

Startled, Wes turned to look towards the sound of the voice, finding a teenage girl standing in the doorway. For a moment he was confused, wondering who she might be, until he remembered the little girl who had sometimes followed Buffy to the High School library.

"You're Dawn, aren't you? Buffy's sister. Are you looking for someone?"

Dawn stared into the dark backyard, giving Wes only a quick glance when she answered. "Spike. He- he was here before. But then Angel saw him and they had a fight. I heard someone was out here and I thought..."

Her voice faded into a quiet sniffle. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and then wrapped her arms around herself, looking like she was only seconds away from bursting into tears. "I wanted to make sure he was all right."

Wes stood up and walked to the girl, wondering if he should try to comfort her, or if that - like everything else he had done so far - would only make things worse. After a few seconds of inner debate, he decided on a small comforting pat on the girl's shoulder. He reached towards her but froze in mid-movement when his brain finally registered what she had actually said.

"Spike? William-the-Bloody-Spike? Angel's grandchild?" Wes' hands automatically went for his pocket, and the small cross and the vial of holy water he had taken the habit of carrying with him. "Here's here? In Sunnydale? We have to-"

He was cut short when the girl suddenly lunged at him, knocking the cross and the holy water from his hand and sending them flying into the darkness beyond the porch.

"Oh, no, please don't!" she sobbed, clutching Wes' shirt. "He's my friend, please don't hurt him, please."

Carefully Wes extricated himself from the crying girl, his well-honed demon hunter's instincts reminding him that he was now standing with his back to the darkened yard where the vampire might be hiding that very moment. He remembered reading about Spike and Drusilla's fondness for young prey, and knew that it would not be at all out of character for the vampire to try to get to a slayer by seducing her sister. Wes briefly wondered if he should call out for Angel, or if that would just alert Spike, who - Wes was now certain - was standing right behind him.

"He's your... friend?" He asked carefully, not wanting to upset the girl any further. "Does you sist-" He could have kicked himself for the slip but luckily Dawn didn't appear to have noticed. "Do the others know that he's your... friend?"

Dawn stopped sniffling and stared at him as if he had suddenly turned green and sprouted horns. "No, they don't," she said, speaking slowly like to a child. "He gives me candy and told me not to tell anyone that I let him touch my special place."

Wes felt his mouth drop open and couldn't find the right muscles to close it again.

Dawn just rolled her eyes and then wiped the tears from her cheek with her sleeve. "Spike's not evil anymore, didn't anyone tell you that? The Initiative put a chip in his head so he can't hurt people. He's been helping us and when Glory..."

She turned away and rubbed her eyes with her hands again before continuing, her voice now barely a whisper. "He's my friend, okay. And he's not evil so you're not allowed to hurt him."

Dawn gave the back yard one last hopeful look before sitting down on the porch. After a moment, Wes followed her example.

"So, who are you, anyway?" Dawn didn't look at him when she spoke, concentrating on picking her nail polish instead.

"Wesley. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce." He waited for a few seconds, expecting some kind of sign of recognition - a look of contempt or disgust, perhaps - but none came. "I used to be Buffy's watcher." If Dawn remembered him, she didn't show it, and so he went on. "I work for Angel now."

That seemed to finally elicit some reaction from the girl, although her burying her face to her knees was not quite what he had been aiming for.

"Angel is stupid," she muttered, her voice muffled by her jeans. "Why didn't he come?"

"Come where?"

"Here. Why didn't he come and help us?"

"He would have wanted to come," Wes said defensively, though his heart wasn't really in it. "We all would have wanted to help, it's just... we were..." He sighed. "It's complicated."

Dawn snorted. "Yeah, well, he's complicated _and _stupid. And he has stupid hair."

Wes felt a smile tugging his lips. "Can't argue with that."

The remained quiet for a while, listening how in the kitchen Angel and Giles' argument increased in volume.

"I miss her," Dawn whispered. "And I miss mom."

Wes thought about offering his condolences, but he knew that his platitudes would be of no use or help for the girl.

He picked up his mug from the porch step, peering into it as if the tea leaves could give an answer. Alas, the cabinets at the kitchen had contained only teabags. He tried to imagine what it would have been like to lose his own parents at Dawn's age, but could only summon a vision of a lonely boy crying himself to sleep in a public school dormitory. There was a small bitter part of him that wondered if it would have made any difference.

"I know it won't console you now, he said finally, "but all those years you had with Buffy and your mother, all the memories you have, they are real, and no-one can ever take them away from you."

She turned to look at him then, her eyes again brimmed with tears, and then suddenly sprang to her feet and ran away.

Wes stood up and watched her disappear inside. He was trapped in an alternative universe - that was the only possible explanation. They had made a wrong turn on their way back home from Pylea and had ended up in a wrong universe where absolutely nothing made sense. He sighed and was just settling back down on the stairs again when there was a polite cough from behind him. He looked up to find Giles standing in the doorway.

"We will be starting the funeral in about an hour," Giles said tersely, polishing his glasses as he spoke. "Unfortunately I seem to have forgotten some of the herbs required for the cloaking spell at the magic shop. Without the spell in place we cannot continue the pretence of her being alive, not to mention the fact that without it, her tomb will be in danger of being desecrated if it's discovered by demons."

There was a silence while Giles replaced the glasses on his nose and looked down at Wes.

"I can go and fetch them."

The look Giles gave him in reply was completely devoid of emotion. "If you insist."

------

Using the keys that Giles had given him, Wes let himself in the magic shop. He vaguely remembered the dark and murky hole-in-the-wall he had, on occasion, visited during his brief stay in Sunnydale, and was momentarily confused when he entered the door and was welcomed by a colourful board advertising 25% off on newts' eyes and chicken legs.

The shop was not at all what he had expected - the rainbow of neatly organised jars and tins on the shelves, the displays of ornamental candles (some of them rather interesting shapes, he noted with embarrassment when he took a closer look), and the dusty books and empty pizza boxes happily sharing a table in the corner. There was a certain cheery sense of family permeating the place, as strong and heavy as the spicy scent of incense hanging in the air, and Wes could easily understand why Giles would not have wanted to come back to the shop himself. For a moment Wes thought of giving in on the urge to stay a little longer, to explore the shop further and browse the shelves and the library; to pretend for a moment that this was where he belonged.

He shook his head ruefully and headed towards the door marked 'Employees only'.

The narrow staircase behind the door led to a small storage room in the basement. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Wes felt along the wall until his fingers brushed against the light switch. His foot connected with an empty bottle, sending it rolling across the floor until it hit another one with a clink. In the dim light Wes could see several more littering the floor. He wondered if he should bring the issue up with Giles, but abandoned the thought immediately.

The herbs were on a small table near the stairs, just as Giles had said. Wes gathered the small pouches in the bag he had brought along, checking and double checking the list Giles had given him to make sure that he got everything. It would be far too embarrassing to screw up something as simple as collecting few herbs. When finally certain that he had found everything he had come to get, Wes turned to leave, only to let out a small scream of terror when he saw the severed head of Buffy Summers staring at him from one of the shelves.

"It's not her."

The hoarse voice from across the room elicited another less than manly shriek from Wes, but he recovered fast, dropping the bag and grabbing a heavy fertility statue from the shelf to use as a weapon.

There was not enough light for him to see the other end of the room; the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling barely illuminating the few square feet beneath it. Wes glanced around for a torch or even a lighter, but before he could find anything useful, the shadows moved, and the man who had spoken stepped into the flickering light. Wes recognised him immediately.

William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, the English beast who had killed and drained thousands upon thousands of people during his hundred year reign of terror.

The best friend of a dead slayer's teenage sister.

Wes could easily remember when he had first heard about Spike. It had been on one of the many lectures during his watcher-training about the myriad dangers threatening slayers. Except this one hadn't been so much a lecture as a single photo slide of a vampire projected on a white screen while Quentin Travers droned on about how they should never under any circumstance allow this particular vampire to come anywhere near their slayer.

Spike was still moving towards him in a slow swagger, his eyes hidden in the dark shadows cast by the light of the swinging lightbulb.

"You're that ex-watcher, aren't you? Angel's boy."

Wes nodded almost involuntarily, clutching the statue tighter to his chest.

Travers' slideshow had been a faded black and white photo of a young black-haired man posing for the camera, leaning against a car with a cigarette dangling between his fingers and an eyebrow raised in an invitation to sin. In his mind's eye Wes could still see Sylvia Parker stifling a giggle as she turned to whisper something to Mary Fleming sitting next to her, while Arthur Sutton surreptitiously moved his notebook to his lap, all to the tune of Travers' monotonous soliloquy about the Aurelian line. But most of all Wes remembered the picture, and the young man looking at the camera, and he remembered thinking how the vampire's eyes had seemed to look right through him.

"Did he send you?"

And now those same eyes were looking at him again, and he couldn't move, couldn't speak, and his brain was screaming at him to just to throw the fertility idol at the vampire and run, because he couldn't remember if it had been Spike who had the thrall or Drusilla.

"Did he send you to kill me?"

Wes discreetly slipped his hand in his pocket, only to find it empty, the holy water and the cross forgotten on the Summers' porch. He took a few hesitant steps backwards, stumbling when he almost trod on an empty bottle, until his back hit the shelf, bringing down a rain of dust and cobwebs. "Stay back, evil fiend!" he shouted, waving the statue at the vampire.

Spike frowned, his steps becoming more hesitant, and he brandished the bottle he was holding. "What're y-"

He didn't have a chance to finish the thought, however. He stepped on one of the empty bottles and fell face first down on the floor.

Wes lowered the fertility idol and took a step towards Spike. The vampire looked decidedly less threatening when he was lying in a heap on the floor, and Wes was still trying to decide if he should stake the vampire, help him up, or simply grab the herbs and run, when Spike started laughing. It was an almost inhuman sound, something between a giggle and a sob, and in itself somehow far more frightening than the slowly approaching predator that he had faced just moments before.

"We all fall down," Spike said finally with a sing-song voice and pushed himself back to his feet. His feet, however, did not seem to want to co-operate and he soon ended up back on the floor, struggling drunkenly like a beetle someone had flipped on its back. Sighing, Wes set the fertility idol on the floor and offered his hand Spike.

Spike gave him a suspicious glare before accepting the hand and letting Wes pull him to his feet. When he was upright again, Spike leaned on the shelf and reached out towards the head.

"It's a robot," he explained, and with odd gentleness pushed a stray lock of hair away from the not-Buffy's face.

Wes hesitantly took a step closer for a better look. Even close up, the head was disturbingly lifelike, its artificiality betrayed by the torn wires protruding from the severed neck and the hint of silver in the flesh visible where the skin had peeled off.

"Fascinating." He reached to touch the robot's face, all concerns of being in the same room with a notorious vampire already forgotten. The skin felt surprisingly real, not all all the mannequin-like plastic he had expected, though there was a slight synthetic quality to it. "There is a body as well, yes?"

Spike made a small affirmative gesture, and looked away. Wes followed his gaze to a corner and a flower-print sheet covering something vaguely human-shaped.

"Fascinating," Wes repeated. Technology had never held much interest for Wes, but he couldn't help but be intrigued by the macabre doll. "Does Angel know of this, I wonder? He would-"

One moment the vampire was leaning heavily to the shelves, the next he had Wes pinned against the wall, his face contorting into that of a monster. Wes screamed, but his voice was drowned by  
a howl of pain from Spike. Just as suddenly as they had grabbed him, the strong fingers let go of Wes' lapels, and clutching his head, Spike fell onto his knees.

Wes stumbled away from the vampire, feeling as though his heart was about to burst out of his chest. He reached for the fertility idol again, then paused.

Spike was still crumbled on the floor, holding his head and muttering some thing about a chip in the midst of a fine selection of profanities.

"You can't hurt people," Wes said, remembering Dawn's words earlier. Spike did not reply, only glared at him from the floor, and Wes was increasingly glad of whatever it was that kept the vampire from harming others.

"Bollocks." Spike shook away his game face, and tried to rise back to his feet, taking support from the shelves, but his fingers slipped and he slid back on the floor. When he sat up again, he clutched his side, wincing in pain.

Wes frowned and carefully leaned down for a closer look. "Are you... Are you hurt?"

"Just a few bumps and bruises," Spike muttered, taking another swig from the bottle which had miraculously remained upright during the drunken acrobatics. "Nothing a good drink and a little sunshine won't fix." He gave up trying to stand and just slumped down against the wall. "Had a little fall the other day," he added quietly.

"Has anyone taken a look at your injuries?" Wes asked, and when the vampire just shrugged, the words blurted out before his brain caught up with his mouth. "May I have a look?"

It probably wasn't among the wisest things he had ever said, but he was curious - curious of what, that he wasn't entirely sure. And after the episode with the instant migraine, Wes was quite convinced that the vampire could not do anything to him except, at the most, possibly drool on his clothes.

Spike looked at him suspiciously, but eventually gave a small nod and closed his eyes. "Sit down and have a drink," he muttered, and proffered his bottle at Wes. "If you're going to play doctor, we might just as well be both drunk."

Wes sat down, but declined the offer for a drink after one look at the clear liquid in the unmarked bottle. "No thank you, I'm quite attached to my eyesight."

He carefully lifted Spike's shirt to get a better look at the injuries, but then froze in his place when a cold hand suddenly brushed his thigh.

"Unless that wasn't the kind of doctor you wanted to play?"

Wes felt his mouth go dry. The vampire was coming on to him. Coming on to him in a way that only a person who should have passed out several bottles ago only could, but coming on to him nonetheless. The hand on his thigh started to move slowly upwards. Panicking, Wes did the only thing he could think of, and poked the vampire in the ribs.

"Ow, that bloody hurt." Spike flinched away, almost concussing Wes with the bottle in the process, and glared him. "Fine then, can't blame a bloke for trying."

Wes decided that his career as the nurse for the undead was now officially over, and started to push back up onto his feet.

"Should have known, though," Spike added, almost ruefully, as he watched Wes stand up. "What with you working for Angel and all."

Wes froze in mid-crouch, blanching at the vampire's suggestion. "I'm not..." He stammered. "He's not... We're not... It's not what you think."

Spike just cocked his head and smiled. "Of course. My mistake."

"And I do not work for Angel," Wes added, feeling that this, at least, should be set straight in every sense of the word. "Angel works for me."

"Oh," Spike said, quirking an eyebrow. "So if you whistle, he'll come running to lick your shoes."

Wes was about to protest when the vampire moved closer, the smell of rancid alcohol in his breath almost overpowering as he whispered huskily in Wes' ear. "Or is it the other way around?"

"It's not what-" Wes started again, but was cut short when strong cold hands suddenly cupped his face. There was the briefest moment of 'oh god oh god he's going to kill me' and then Spike kissed him.

Spike tasted like dirt and tobacco and alcohol, and for a fraction of a second Wes wondered if it was possible to go blind from second-hand methanol poisoning. He didn't pull away, though, not when they both needed the touch, both needed that one moment of being wanted by someone else. He moved his own hand to cradle the back of Spike's skull, pulling him closer.

Finally Spike released Wes, looking at him with a slightly dazed look on his face.

Reluctantly, Wes too let his hand fall down from Spike's hair. His heart was racing, and he could still taste Spike in his mouth. He could vaguely remember having come to the Magic Shop on some specific errand, but he was having difficulties remembering what it might have been - something about Giles - which suggested that either there was some vampiric thrall at work, or it had just been far too long since Virginia. There must have been some truth to the stories about vampire saliva as well, because he was also finding it difficult to form words.

He cleared his throat. "I, uh..."

Spike had been staring at Wes' lips, but when Wes spoke, he looked up, catching Wes' eyes. Wes could feel the heat rising on his cheeks at the way Spike was looking at him. Definitely a thrall. He tried to speak again.

"That was... ah... nice?"

Spike tilted his head curiously, looking like he was considering his answer.

"You taste better than Rupert," he finally slurred and then, before Wes could come up with a suitable response, fell bonelessly forward, passing out in Wes' lap.


End file.
